Turgon signaled that the doors be opened, and once they were it was revealed that one of the guards was standing at the door with Tauniel beside him. She entered the room gaily, and paused once she reached the center area, between the two support posts that had been painted many times over to hide the spatters of blood on them. “Your Highness, I beg your pardon, but I must urgently speak with my husband. It is of the utmost importance.”
It seemed for a moment that Turgon was trying to recall just who she was. He gave up after a few seconds and asked, directing his question quietly to Ecthelion, “To whom does she belong?”
“Tauniel.” Glorfindel managed to stand up and walk down the few steps from his assigned seat. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing – nothing at all! Everything is wonderful!” She lightly ran the few steps to where he was and threw her arms around his neck. “We did it!” she told him excitedly.
Glorfindel could not have suppressed his smile if he had wanted to, and he embraced her gently while she clung to him. Vaguely, he became acutely aware of the presence of another – very close, very faint, and very fragile. Unlike the sensing of the fea of a full-grown Elf, which was plagued by so many thoughts and concepts, this one was curious and carefree. Suddenly, Glorfindel’s own selfish thoughts – not wanting to place anyone else in command of his troops, not wanting to leave his horses in anyone else’s charge, not having complete and utter freedom of his comings and goings – all of that meant so little to him now that this new little hope meant so much.
“It looks as if there shall be a double celebration,” announced Ecthelion when, after a full minute, Glorfindel and Tauniel refused to move apart.
Though invited to the small celebration held at Galdor’s home, Tauniel declined, stating she wished to spread the news to her friends now that her husband had been the first to know. Upon leaving the council chambers, however, Glorfindel catch sight of Faelion, leaned against the wall of a shadowy alcove. He had not been the first, he realized, when Faelion winked at him and mouthed the words ‘I hope it is a boy’ to him. If anyone had the right to know before he did, Glorfindel decided that ‘Uncle’ Faelion was the best possible candidate.
The walk across the old courtyard to the path that led to the domains of the House of the Tree and the House of the Fountain was merry and pleasant. More than once, Glorfindel was engaged in conversation with members of the council he would more often argue with than hold a civil conversation.
Rog was the first, seeming somewhat astounded (and rightfully so). He offered quite a bit of fathering advice (apparently thinking Glorfindel would need more help than most). “You are going to need to learn to be strict – but not too strict. I can just image you letting the child walk all over you. That child is due to be spoiled rotten by the mother, so you will need to take responsibility when it comes to discipline.” Glorfindel frowned, but continued to half-heartedly listen to Rog. Upon imparting some very basic knowledge that even non-parents would likely be able to figure out, he was gently pushed out of the way by Salgant.
Salgant, after expressing his congratulations, began to expound upon the advantages and disadvantages of the unborn Elfling’s possible gender. “No matter what,” he finally said, “that child is going to have a very viable career as a professional musician.”
“How can you think that?” wondered Glorfindel.
“You have a marvelous, melodious voice that really needs to be used more often to sing,” stated Salgant. “Your wife has natural acting ability, and that is something every minstrel needs. Her voice is quite lovely as well. Take that and add it to the fact that you are both very intelligent, that you excel in mathematical thinking, and that equates to a brilliant child who will not be challenged by normal means, and who has the inborn ability to become one of the finest minstrels of our time!”
“Before you go buying the little one his first harp,” interrupted Duilin as he steered Salgant away from Glorfindel, “you should know he tells just about everyone that their child would make a fine minstrel.”
“That is untrue,” argued Salgant as they strolled away and toward the front of the group of lords. “I told Erestor his child was more likely to grow up to be an actor.”
“My wife is having a girl, so I certainly hope she grows up to be an actress, if that is the case,” said Erestor over his shoulder.
Maeglin, who had been walking by his uncle’s side the entire time, tilted his head. “A girl. How lovely for you. I am sure you have heard, but statistically, if a girl is born first, it is unlikely that there will be more children after that. If a boy is born first, there are often many more to follow. Very often, however, once a girl does enter into the family, no more are born afterwards.”
“My friend Orodreth and his wife had two children, the first a girl and the second a boy,” countered Erestor. He had turned around now, and was walking backwards so that he might address Maeglin without getting a crick in his neck.
“But it is not the normal course,” added Maeglin.
“Your mother was not the youngest child in our family,” said Turgon in defense of Erestor. “We had a brother younger than her.”
Maeglin looked quite surprised. “Why was I never told of this, uncle? Mother spoke much of you, and told me some things of Uncle Fingon, but never did I hear of another brother.”
Turgon stared sadly down the path. “We speak very little of him. His death was quite untimely. I would tell you of him in private, later,” offered Turgon.
“I would appreciate that greatly,” said Maeglin with a bow of his head. He then inclined his head toward Erestor and said, “My apologies. I was misinformed regarding birth order and such related topics.”
“There is no need to apologize,” said Erestor with a smile. “There is some truth to what you said – it is rare, but sometimes a first-born girl does not mean an only child. At least, I hope it will not.”
“Still – I am sorry.”
The awkward and sincere expression from Maeglin confused Erestor, who simply nodded and turned back around. Some ways back from the main part of the group, Glorfindel was still receiving advice.
“I know of a carpenter who makes these split doors,” Egalmoth continued. “He does quality work. The door closes on the bottom, and then the top part can swing open. The bottom is low enough that you or I or anyone could step over it, but the baby will not be able to. Of course, once they are tall enough and smart enough to open the door on their own, then you will need some locks. I would also suggest you invest now in copper or mithril candleholders. There are some nice ones you can find in the Greater Marketplace that have a glass cup inside of the metal, which forms a cage. They are a little dimmer than typical holders, but the baby will not be able to reach inside and burn their hand, and if it tips over the flame is immediately extinguished. They are really quite a necessity.”
There were three flights of stairs up to the rooftop dining area where lunch would be served. Glorfindel was appreciative of the fact that Egalmoth slowed down and continued to talk to him as he struggled to reach each landing. They finally arrived on the rooftop as drinks were being poured. Two seats had been left open: One was between Erestor and Ecthelion, while the other was between the King and Galdor.
Egalmoth began to walk toward the seat beside the King, but when he noticed Glorfindel was following, he turned and said, “Do you not wish to sit by your friends?”
“I sit with them all the time,” answered Glorfindel with a shrug. “I do not mind, though, if you would prefer the other seat.”
“Oh, no, it makes no difference to me. Actually, it has been some time since Ecthelion and I have had the chance to chat. If you do not mind?”
“Please.” Glorfindel made a gesture with his hand, and Egalmoth gave him a slight pat on the shoulder before rounding to the other side of the table. Glorfindel sat down in his chosen seat as the server came up behind him and poured water into one glass and wine into another. Out of curiosity, Glorfindel glanced across the table and noticed that both of Erestor’s goblets had been filled, thought the water remained untouched. He frowned, but would say nothing.
“The menu for this afternoon includes fried crab cakes, fresh mussels steamed with tomatoes and mushrooms and served with a red wine sauce over rice, and steamed carrots. We will start with fresh bread and garlic butter, and a creamed garlic-mushroom soup. Dessert is a warm fruit pastry with sweetened cream. The appetizers will be out shortly; if you have need of more drink, you need only lift your glass and a server shall be at your side. If you have other needs, please feel free to ask me,” finished the chief server. Maeglin almost immediately raised his hand, and the server bowed. “How may I serve you, my lord?”
“Where is your, ah, ‘little lord’s room’?” he asked, causing many of those at the table to grin.
“Right this way, sir,” answered the server with another bow, and he led Maeglin toward a set of steps leading down.
The rooftop was somewhat flat, but it was unique in that instead of shingles, the roof was covered with sod and potted trees created a canopy over many spots. “This is really a wonderful area,” commended Turgon once the server had gone. “I regret only that I did not come here sooner.”
“It took many years for the trees to grow in just right,” said Galdor. “It is almost better to have waited until they matured to get this full effect.”
“It was still very nice when you first opened it,” said Ecthelion in support. “I have dined here myself on many occasions, Your Highness, and the food is always very good. The service is excellent,” he added with a nod toward the group of servers standing off to the side, perfectly poised with pitchers of wine or water in hand. They bowed in thanks synchronically.
“My staff prides themselves on the service,” added Galdor, “and thank you for your compliment, Ecthelion.”
“Idril would love this place,” mused Turgon as he took in the view, which included a large portion of the gardens attached to Ecthelion’s estate. “If you are not entirely booked for supper, I would gladly make reservations for this evening. A table for four, so that Maeglin and Carynien might join us,” he added as Galdor motioned the head server over to schedule the reservation.
“There is always a table open for you, Your Highness,” stated Galdor.
Small conversations carried on between pairs and trios, and then came the first and second course. Glorfindel listened more than he spoke, his mind elsewhere entirely. He ate his bread without much thought, and continued to the soup while subconsciously rearranging the apartment in his mind in order to accommodate a large nursery. Empty plates and bowls were removed, and the main course arrived on a large plate, steaming and smelling faintly of the sea – a trick by a talented cook, no doubt, considering how far they were inland.
Glorfindel looked down at his place. On one side, there were two objects that resembled perfectly round pieces of fish covered in a crisp breading. On the other side, there was a mound of rice, covered in pieces of vegetable, a red sauce that looked like vibrantly hued blood, and what appeared to be a heap of seashells.
He took a quick look around the table. Without his glasses, which he refused to be seen in in public unless absolutely necessary, he was unable to spy on anyone else and figure out just what to do with the foreign dish on the right side. The fried patties looked safe enough, and he found them to be quite delicious when he cut off a small portion to try.
“Neither of you have ever had mussels before, have you?”
Glorfindel looked to his right, where the King sat. There was no look of amusement, only a very plain expression that simply asked the question. Turgon was looking from Glorfindel, to Maeglin on his own right, and back again.
“No, sir,” they both answered at the same time, sounding slightly embarrassed.
Turgon chuckled, but it was that type of laughter that put you more at ease. “They look strange, but they are quite easy to deal with. You just keep them in place like this,” he explained, placing his spoon inside the shell to anchor it. Glorfindel squinted as he watched. “Then you poke your fork into this – this is what you want,” he added. “Pull it out, if they are cooked properly they will easily pull away from the shell – and then you eat them.” Turgon lifted the fork to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Very tasty.”
Neither Glorfindel nor Maeglin looked entirely convinced, but after being given a personal lesson, it seemed rude not to try. They followed Turgon’s instructions, though once the mussel was on the fork in front of them, they both stared at it. It was oval shaped, peachy colored, with grey around the edges, and did not look like the sort of thing one ate on purpose, thought Glorfindel.
“On three?” suggested Maeglin from where he sat. Glorfindel nodded, and bravely tried his when Maeglin finished the count.
It was a little more chewy than anticipated, but Glorfindel managed to swallow it without making any odd noises. Maeglin, on the other hand, brought his napkin up to his mouth, and deposited the folded over cloth beside his plate. “They have a very oceany aftertaste,” observed Glorfindel.
“A little too salty for me,” said Maeglin. He finished the crab, but motioned for the nearest server to take his plate away after that.
“It is Telerin cuisine; not always favored by those with Noldorin blood,” explained Galdor. “I have heard it said though that Vanyarin tastes are very close, so I am curious to hear your thoughts,” he said to Glorfindel.
“It is different, but I think I like them,” he decided.
“I just had an idea,” said Voronwe. “With all of our mixed backgrounds – sure, we have mostly Noldorin, but there are various subcultures within, and some Telerin and Vanyarin such as Glorfindel and myself – it would be splendid to have gatherings at different houses every few weeks or so, just to talk like this outside of council, and to sample the different foods.”
“I second that motion,” agreed Galdor. “There are a number of other dishes my staff is proud of.”
Glorfindel slowed his eating, and looked across the table to where Erestor sat. Most of the time it never came up, but in situations such as this the fact that he technically had no physical House of the Golden Flower made things awkward. Next to him, he saw Turgon tilt his head toward his nephew, and faintly heard Maeglin ask, “Where exactly is the House of the Golden Flower located? I have never seen it.”
Turgon leaned in closer and spoke his answer directly into Maeglin’s ear. All the while, Glorfindel felt a flush creeping up his neck. He swallowed hard as Turgon sat up again, and stared down at his empty plate.
“I think it should be optional,” announced Maeglin before Galdor and Voronwe could continue making plans. “Some of us, such as myself, do not have adequate space to host such an event.”
“You could set up in your lawn, then,” answered Voronwe.
“No.” Maeglin effectively silenced the table.
“This is for camaraderie sake, Maeglin,” said Galdor. “Why would you refuse this?”
“Bring it up in council if you must, but I will vote against it.”
“Well, that is just fine,” Voronwe half-sneered. “You would come to our gatherings, but would not reciprocate with one of your own. Perhaps we should limit the attendees, then, to only those willing enough to spare the expense of such an event as Galdor has today.”
Appetite lost and not willing to listen further, Glorfindel rose from his chair. “If you will all excuse me,” he said suddenly, “I—I must attend to my wife. Thank you for your hospitality, Galdor. Good day.” He went as quickly as he was able to the stairs and hastily disappeared around the banister.
Maeglin threw down onto the table the napkin that had been on lap. “I would not want anyone’s false generosity. It seems all most of you ever think about is money. You must lead very sad lives.” Without properly excusing himself, he left the table and followed after Glorfindel.
“What did I say that was so wrong?” questioned Voronwe after Maeglin was gone. “I mean, it sounded like he just wanted to come along for a free lunch.”
“Do you really think that was what that was about?” The King had remained silent, not wanting to always need to interject. He shook his head. “The one person at this table who will never need to worry about where he is going to get his next meal is Maeglin. Or have you forgot he is heir to my throne?”
Voronwe bit his lip and bowed his head appropriately. Erestor, who was on to his third glass of wine, said softly, “You forget things so quickly, Voronwe. Where do you believe Lord Glorfindel would hold such an event?”
For a moment, it looked as if Voronwe was going to answer with ‘his house’, but a second later, he cringed. “Oh. But, you would have that same difficulty,” realized Voronwe.
“No,” corrected Penlodh. “It is I who is lord over both the Pillar and the Tower, but Erestor aids me with that task. I would assume he would host at one, and I at the other. Just because he does not live beneath the roof of one of my towers does not mean he is not welcome there.”
“So, really, this is about Glorfindel,” said Galdor. “Does anyone know why he never built a house?”
Ecthelion motioned for a server to come and refill not only his goblet, but Erestor’s as well. “There was no need for it in the beginning. He and I shared barracks, and the only people in his house were soldiers living in the barracks and horse masters living above his stables.”
“He still employs only those, plus the teachers and those running his orphanage. Most everyone makes wages enough to build their own houses,” explained Erestor.
“What about servants?” asked Voronwe. “Where do his servants live?”
Erestor snorted. “He does not keep servants.”
“Why not?” asked more than one lord at the table.
“He... well, on occasion he will pay one of the maids in the tower to bring up water or wash the linens, but he does not have any directly under his employ,” said Erestor. “I never really pressed the matter much. When he goes home tonight and has supper, he will most likely clear the dishes, and will probably wash them himself.” Some of the lords, including Salgant, made a face at such a suggestion.
“If those he employs have the funds to build their own houses,” reasoned Egalmoth, “certainly, he should have the funds to build his own house. He built that new stable some years ago, and those barracks.”
“He has a small chamber underground, beneath his barracks. I believe most of us recall the day he was confronted there,” said Rog. “However, it is a highly unsuitable place to raise a family.”
“So why does he not build a proper home near his barracks?” asked Egalmoth again.
Duilin sighed. “Are you all truly that dense? He cannot afford to.”
“That makes no sense. If his soldiers make enough money to build their own houses –“ began Voronwe.
“His soldiers make more than yours, or anyone else’s. He was probably appalled that anyone should offer a meager twenty or thirty to cover living expenses for injured warriors.” Duilin’s voice rose as he continued and gathered the courage to speak up. “He takes no salary for himself; I asked him of this once when I noticed he was in the Lesser Market one day, wandering from stall to stall, attempting to find the best price on something. It was puzzling, to see him fret over costs on something none of us would bother taking the time to investigate. In fact, most of us would just send a servant to make our purchases for us.
“He told me then that he was careful on his own spending because he did not wish to ever have to lower the wages of his own followers. I pressed him on the issue of the house; his answer was that it was more important for all of the other families to live in their own homes than it was for him to be the sole homeowner. And then, when I saw what it was he bought, I realized it was not even for himself. I went home that night, paced my marble floors, and wept at my own greed and selfishness.”
Everyone at the table was silent, until Ecthelion asked, “What was he trying to buy that day?”
Duilin flicked away a tear that strayed and answered, “Ten pounds of apples, to give to his horses.”
